Communication
by Girl Who Writes
Summary: I don’t miss being a junkie, I swear. I just miss not having to feel like this.


**Title:** Communication

**Author:** Girl Who Writes

**Feedback:** is beloved :)

**Pairing:** Mimi/Roger

**Rating:** PG

**Genre:** Drama, romance

**Summary:** I don't miss being a junkie, I swear. I just miss not having to feel like this.

**Spoilers:** Movie and musical.

**Warnings:** Language

**Disclaimer:** Property of the Jonathon Larson estate, I make no profit.

* * *

"This will sting a little, Miss Marquez." 

I looked away as the doctor slid the needle into my arm, drawing blood from my arm. Dirty needles gave me HIV and now I finally kicked the habit, I'm doomed to spend the rest of my life as a pin cushion.

I've been clean for almost a year, yet the sight of needles always make me tense up. I can't go back to shooting up, to planning my life around how I was going to afford my next hit. Just the sight of a needle makes me want to run home where I don't have to think about needles. I'm glad I'm clean, I don't want to go back there, but I still run from it.

"All done, Miss Marquez," the doctor smiled at me tiredly. "Your results should be back in a week."

She doesn't strip off her gloves until the vials of my blood are safe in a case labeled with the words 'Contaminated' on one side. She catches me looking, and offers me another brittle smile and I wonder how many HIV+ patients she deals with every week, and whether I'm just another stupid kid to her.

I sling my back over my shoulder and pull my sleeve down without bothering to wait for her to give me a band aid. She doesn't call me back, so I slap the money that I had to borrow off of Mark and Collins to be able to come to my appointment, and venture out in the city streets, where people brush past me and don't turn around. I don't miss being a junkie, I swear. I just miss not having to feel like this.

I find a few bucks at the bottom of my bag and sit in a café window, drinking a scalding cup of coffee, and examining the mark left from the needle; the doctor hadn't been careful enough – it was already starting to bruise.

I didn't bother going to my apartment, where I knew three days of washing up and dirty laundry were waiting for me, but walked up to the loft. Mark would be out filming but Roger would hopefully be up – it was almost lunchtime.

As I slide back the door to the loft, I heard strains of Musetta's Waltz, and found Roger half sprawled on the cough, plucking out the notes on his guitar, in his sweatpants and t shirt.

"Hey," he grinned up at me, putting down his guitar and jumping up to give me a kiss.

"Morning," I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. His kissed my hair, and pulled back, walking into the kitchen.

"You want something to eat?" he pulled open the fridge door. "There's yesterday's pizza and some sort of curry thing…"

"Any cereal?" I smiled, leaning against the metal table, rubbing my arm where the bruise was forming.

"Capt'n Crunch and milk is served, m'lady," Roger grins at me, presenting me with the box of cereal and pulled some bowls off of the shelf. "Hey, what's wrong with your arm?"

I looked up, dropping my arms to my sides. "What? Nothing," I reached for the cereal box and Roger gave me an indifferent look.

"Mark said to tell you if you needed any more cash, to let him know," Roger dropped his spoon into his bowl of cereal and crossed his arms over his chest. "Mimi…"

"It's nothing Roger, really," I said, shaking my head. He didn't need to know about me seeing the doctor until my test results came back. It was pointless worry. I was stressing out enough for both of us.

"Let me see your arm," Roger demanded, coming around the table.

"Roger, its nothing!" I stepped backwards.

"You're borrowing money from my best friend to buy that shit, and you say it's nothing! Jesus, Mimi, you've been clean for almost a year and you want to go back to that crap!" He was yelling now, grabbing my arm and pushing up my sleeve, roughly, the bruise sore as shit now. "Fuck, Mimi! You can't do this to me again! I won't let you do this to me or Mark or yourself again!"

I pulled away and grabbed my bag and coat. "Whatever." I moved towards the door.

"You aren't going anywhere." Roger beat me to the door. "I'm not going to let you do this to us again."

I stared at him. "Don't you trust me, Roger, to stay clean on my own?" He looked away. "You don't trust me, at all, do you?" I said dully.

"Mimi, you've got to understand… I…" Roger threw up his hands. "I'm trying so fucking hard to help you…"

"I'm clean, Roger! I did it and I won't go back to that place!" We were both yelling now.

"Maybe you should leave, Mimi."

I wanted to throw something at him. "You don't think I can do this on my own, do you? Oh my God Roger!" I was full on screaming now. "I'll do whatever you command, be your slave, a mere object with which you can do what you will, only don't send me away - I couldn't bare it - I cannot live without you."

I stormed from the loft, slamming the sliding door shut and going down to my apartment, and cried.

We didn't talk for a week – until I dropped down to the clinic and picked up my results. I didn't like how it felt to be standing in the middle of the street alone, in the middle of a cold November day, reading the piece of paper that told me whether I lived or died. I didn't like the feeling of reading it while people walked past me. Completely alone.

My T-Cells were down, but not as bad as I thought. I wasn't dying this Christmas.

When I got to the loft, Mark was attempting to cook something for dinner. "He's in his room, Mimi," he smiled at me, as I walked through.

He was strumming Musetta's Waltz again when I walked in. "Hey."

"Hey."

"I um, went down to the clinic today," I crossed the room, and pulled the crumpled paper from my pocket and offered it to him. "I had a blood test last week, and well…"

"You're okay?" Roger looked at the page.

"I'm fine," I took a seat on the bed beside him. "I just… I was worried."

"This was why…?" he dropped the paper and looked at me.

"Yeah," I shrugged. "Fuck, I hate needles."

He pressed a kiss to my temple and pulled me back on the bed with him. "I was a jerk, wasn't I?"

"Completely," I agreed my arms around his waist.

"I was scared," he sighed. "I was scared I was going to lose you, and I can't let that happen again."

"I'm not," I breathed.

"I know, but..." Roger closed his eyes.

"You know, I meant it," I rolled over, propping my head up with my hands.

"Meant what?" he gave me a confused look.

"That I'll do whatever you command, be your slave, a mere object with which you can do what you will, only don't send me away - I couldn't bare it - I cannot live without you," I smiled at him. "I really love you, Roger."

He didn't reply, but pulled me down for a kiss.

* * *


End file.
